They refused to come to my wedding when they found out it was held at a nursing home for my grandfather’s sake. My father looked at me with disgust and said, “You’re an embarrassment.”

The San Gabriel nursing home, just outside Valencia, had never hosted a wedding before. Pale walls carried the familiar scent of disinfectant, softened by flowers brought in that morning. I stood beside Álvaro, my fiancé, gripping his hand as I stared at the empty seats reserved for my family. Parents. Aunts. Cousins. Not a single one had come.

“They could still change their minds,” Álvaro whispered, though we both knew better.

Two weeks earlier, when I told them the ceremony would take place at the nursing home so my grandfather Manuel could attend, my father had exploded.

“A nursing home?” he shouted. “Do you want people to think we’re poor? This is shameful.”

Now, as residents shuffled in with gentle smiles, I walked forward. I refused to cry for people who chose absence over love.

Halfway through the ceremony, the sharp tap of a cane echoed across the room. My grandfather, seated in the front row, was slowly pushing himself upright. A nurse rushed toward him, but he lifted a trembling hand to stop her.